A Rose By Any Other Name Would Still Be 'Red' To Pals

Ever heard anyone named John say he was going to use the john? Probably not.

The Johns I've quizzed -- staunch, upstanding individuals, all -- admit to some peevishness that their name is tossed freely around as a handy alternative for bathroom, restroom or toilet.

And who can blame them? Looking back on my own life, I can say that over the long haul of years I certainly wouldn't have appreciated hearing people say they have to go use the edward.

But the Johns agree it's a little late in the game to do much about the abuse of their good name. Even John Brooks out in Texas, after recently staging his third annual ''National John Day'' on a downtown Dallas corner in an effort to restore dignity to the name, says he's throwing in the towel.

Apparently he'll fade away into the crowd now and become just another -- excuse the expression -- John Doe.

John Doe, John Q. Public, John Law, longjohns, on and on. I hesitate bringing this one up, but in this day of questionable enlightenment we all know what the customers of female streetwalkers are called.

And wasn't it World War II that gave birth to the serviceman's Dear John letter, the bombshell announcement from the girl he left behind, canceling their romantic relationship?

Even with all that, John remains one of the most popular of names conferred by parents on newborn males. I'm not saying the name assures future sensibility and reliability, but those labels do happen to fit all the older Johns I know.

Why is it, one wonders, that we seem to have a fetish for tinkering with other people's names? Long ago a mother explained to me that she named her sons Craig and Lee because those names would discourage nicknames. To their friends today, Craig is Cray and Lee is Robert E. There's no name that can't be playfully shortened, elongated, embellished or sullied.

Then, to carry this thought a bit further, there's the matter of nicknames that have nothing to do with our given names. Surely most of us have flinched at nicknames bestowed on us, believing they failed to mirror our self-images. My boyhood pals, for example, were Warthead (tiny head), Squirrel (squirrel-faced), Donuts (his dad owned a bakery), Spit (for an obvious reason), and Boogers (you guessed it).

The other day I wrote a list of nicknames people have pinned on me, and darned if I didn't come up with an autobiographical sketch of myself, from birth to retirement: Hairy Boy, Skinny, Caruso, Beanpole, Rubinoff, High Pockets, Hemingway, Shorty, Slim, Private, Mr. Ed, Big Ed, Big Daddy and Easy Ed.

Having long suffered those appellations has given me emotional grounds for identifying with the Johns of the world.

Oh, yes. There was always some joker asking me: ''How's the weather up there?'' To which I seldom could resist this little sally: ''The weather up here is too rarefied for you, Shorty.''